


scratch that itch

by whitchbhitch



Series: Non-Traditional A/B/O [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Animalistic, Crying During Sex, Feral Behavior, Impregnation Kink, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Service Submission, Topping from the Bottom, Verbal Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21856798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchbhitch/pseuds/whitchbhitch
Summary: Mike always knows when his heat is coming. He tracks it meticulously. He does this because he knows he becomes a complete nightmare of a human being when he’s close. It’s best to keep track of it, so he can warn the people in his life that they’re going to basically be interacting with a feral cat for the next few weeks.
Relationships: Michael Latta/Tom Wilson
Series: Non-Traditional A/B/O [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574629
Comments: 18
Kudos: 262





	scratch that itch

**Author's Note:**

> And I return, LITERALLY more than a year later! This 'verse was really just bugging at me in the back of my brain, and I started and stopped on this so many times before just finally sitting down for two hours and pumping out two thousand words of porn. Well, maybe "pumping out" isn't the best choice of words here. 
> 
> Anyway, this is a continuation of my id fic, and in this one the thought process was, "what if instead of becoming weepy submissive sex dolls during heat, omegas became HYUUUUGGE BITCHES???" I had lots of fun writing Fully Feral Michael Latta, and I hope you have even half as much fun reading it.

Mike always knows when his heat is coming. He tracks it meticulously. He does this because he knows he becomes a complete nightmare of a human being when he’s close. It’s best to keep track of it, so he can warn the people in his life that they’re going to basically be interacting with a feral cat for the next few weeks.

-

His teeth start to itch late April, exactly on time. He wakes up to himself tonguing his gums. His canines haven’t dropped fully, but he can just feel the tips, sharp against his tongue. He bites down on it, just to feel a little, to try to soothe the ache. He opens up his heat-tracking app, and yep, there, Wednesday, April 24th: start of heat, neatly labeled. He sighs and rolls over, nudges Tom in the side.

“Willy,” he says.

“Hmm?” Tom asks, making that stupid face that he always makes when he first wakes up.

“Pre-heat is here.”

Tom immediately wakes up all the way, seemingly ready to leap up at a moment’s notice. “Do you need something? Can I get you anything?”

“No, no. You just gotta know—” Mike tongues at his teeth again and they drop. He sighs. “I’m gonna be a real fucking bitch for the next two weeks.”

-

Three days later, they’re playing Dallas, and he’s facing Tyler Seguin in the faceoff. They’re waiting for the puck to drop, but it’s taking an awfully fucking long time. Mike can tell Seguin is grinning at him, but he keeps his eyes on the ice, the ref in his periphery.

“Heat’s coming, huh?” asks Seguin. He smells hot and muggy, like a Texas spring, even in the cold of the ice rink. The feeling of another omega so close in his space makes Mike’s hackles rise.

“Shut the fuck up,” says Mike.

Seguin’s grin only grows bigger. Neither of their teeth have dropped, but for Mike at least, it’s sheer fucking willpower.

People always think Seguin isn’t an omega—they say he’s too easy-going, kind-hearted, irresponsible. Might as well be an alpha. But Mike knows better. There’s a power in Seguin’s urges that can’t be denied—urges to go out all night, get fucked up and take off all your clothes and howl at the moon—urges that Mike has felt himself. Is feeling now.

Mike can feel Seguin’s delight like a physical force, and sniffs the air. The mugginess solidifies into something recognizable. Seems like he isn’t the only one in pre-heat.

“Yeah, I know,” says Seguin. “I always like playing in pre-heat. I like to play until I can’t anymore, until I drag Jamie off the bench and we go home and he—”

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Mike grits out.

Just then, the puck drops, and Tyler is off with it in a flash, laughter echoing behind him. Mike curses himself; later he slams Seguin into the boards and takes fierce, genuine joy in the feeling of their bodies colliding, the slight grunt that Seguin makes as the air is knocked out of his lungs. His teeth drop, then, but he keeps his mouth closed and makes a note to switch to his pre-heat mouth guard, the one with the fang indents that allow his teeth to drop comfortably. He gets the feeling he’s gonna need it.

-

Mike stops wearing bright colors. The stark red and bright blue of his jersey make him uncomfortable, let alone the shiny reflective white. Off the ice he gravitates towards grays, blacks, dark greens and deep blues. He skirts around the edges of rooms. Keeps his back to the walls.

One day in the locker room, after he hisses—literally hisses—at Andre for sneaking up behind him, Nicke approaches him, from the front and to the right: Mike’s stronger side. Nicke’s making sure to make plenty of noise. It’s noticeable because normally Nicke makes no more sound than a shadow, fading in and out with no one the wiser. Now, he drags his feet, clears his throat ten feet away and waits for Mike to nod before he approaches further. Mike isn’t sure if he’s so good at dynamic stuff because he’s a grownup, or a European, or just because he’s Nicke, but this is the first time in a week Mike’s been able to be around another omega without his hackles up.

“I know a place that—It helps, with the stress. At least a little bit. Here.” Nicke hands him a piece of paper with a phone number and name on it.

“Don’t tell anyone I told you about it,” he says, and fades back into the busyness of the locker room. Mike loses sight of him until he pops back up over by Ovi, who’s just sitting down to take off his stakes. Nicke puts a hand on the top of his head, and Ovi, his shoulders tensed up from talking to reporters, eases.

The piece of paper has the color scheme and font Mike associates with, like, nice spas and yoga places. Mike assumes Nicke probably wouldn’t send him to some weird sexy massage parlor and makes an appointment for the coming weekend. Although you never really know, with that guy.

He’s relieved, then, when he gets to the spa and it all looks on the up and up. There’s an alpha woman behind the desk, with long nails and a high ponytail. She smiles at him, not showing her teeth. Doesn’t speak to him until he approaches. Treating him like the startled animal he is, without seeming like it. She’s good.

He checks in, and she brings him to a small changing room, leaves him there to change into a robe. It doesn’t smell like anything in there—eucalyptus and industrial strength cleaner and the faint waft of a few alphas, assumedly employees. Outside, there’s always the smell of omegas somewhere. They’re one third of the population, it wouldn’t make any sense for them not to be around anywhere you went. Mike didn’t realize the toll it took on him until that weight is eased. So far, in the entire facility, there is absolutely no trace of any other omegas. The amount of money he’s paying makes sense, now.

A beta man, with light brown skin and a nice close-lipped smile comes to collect him. He leads Mike into another room. Mike gets a facial. Mike gets a manicure and a pedicure. Mike gets aromatherapy. Mike relaxes, actually relaxes, for the first time in a week.

The second Mike steps out of the building, an omega woman knocks into him. She’s just coming off her heat, her smell still strong, and they’re both growling and flashing teeth at each other before remembering they’re adults. He apologizes and picks up the bag that she dropped, and she apologizes and bids a hasty retreat—probably the best thing for the both of them.

Spring is always tense, with most omegas going into heat somewhere between March and June. Snarling at each other in the street isn’t completely unexpected, but it is rude.

By the time Mike gets back to his car, his shoulders are up by his ears, his head hurts, and his teeth itch. So much for that.

-

Mike is so unbelievably glad he lives with who he lives with. He doesn’t buy into that bullshit “omegas can’t be friends” myth that’s peddled by some people. He really likes most omegas. They’re his friends, his colleagues. Fuck, his dad is an omega. He loves his dad. That being said, Mike knows that if there was another omega living in this apartment he would have ripped their head off by now. Or disappeared to last out his heat in the woods, bringing Tom with him.

Andre blithely tolerates Mike’s heat with the sort of unrattled self-assurance of a person whose entire body doesn’t fuck him over for six weeks every year. He treats Mikes heat like he treated Tom’s rut—indulging it as far he’s willing to and setting boundaries for the rest.

Mike’s upset about—well, nothing, really. His skin itches, and he wants to go for a run but he just came back from one, and physically he’s all tired out. He’s still agitated, though, pacing as he drinks from a glass of water. Andre is sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone. He reaches out a hand to snag Mike.

“You’re being fucking annoying,” he says, not looking up from his phone. “Go take a nap with Willy.”

Mike nods and puts his dish in the dishwasher, pads down to Tom’s room. Tom’s in there taking a nap. The sun is coming in through the windows and heating the room, dust floating through the sunbeams. It smells like Tom, which is to say, a young hockey player, which is to say, a little gross but achingly familiar. Tom’s facing away from him, towards the wall, just in basketball shorts. He’s all tangled up in the sheets and he’s really conked out hard, his mouth wide open and snoring.

Mike climbs in behind him, settles his forehead in between Tom’s bare shoulder blades. Tom smacks his lips but doesn’t wake up. The room is hot, genuinely, and Tom’s sweating a little. Mike licks him a bit just to taste. Hmm, salty. Gross. Between one breath and the next, Mike fades off into sleep, Tom’s snores lulling him into unconsciousness.

-

Mike wakes up to him grinding himself against Tom’s ass. His mouth is open, his fangs resting against the back of Tom’s throat. Not biting down, just holding. So that Tom can’t get away. Mike’s hands come up to squeeze at Tom’s hips, and—yup, there are his secondary fingernails, long and sharp, sliding out slowly to cover his blunt ones like a cat’s claws extending. He presses his tongue against the back of Mike’s neck, feels up Tom’s broad chest, his biceps, strong thighs. Good—fuck—good breeding stock. Mike knows, with certainty, that Tom would give him healthy, strong children.

The jolt of arousal that spreads though Mike’s body is the only sign he needs that they’ve entered his true heat.

“You’re awake,” says Tom, quietly. Mike grunts, tightening his jaw just to feel Tom shiver.

God, he wants to make him shiver. He wants to make Tom shudder and shake, wants to make him cry, wants to sit on his chest and lick up Tom's tears with his tongue. 

"Do you want to--" starts Tom.

"Shut up," grunts Mike, around his mouthful. "Unless you're telling me to stop, shut the fuck up."

Tom nods. Clever boy. 

Mike flips him over onto his back, crouches over him, pins Tom's wrists to the bed. He knows his own pupils are blown wide open, to the point where, even in this room with no lights on, the sun going down over the horizon, Mike can see perfectly. Can track the steady rise and fall of Tom's breath. Can see the bead of sweat running down Tom's temple. Mike leans over and licks it up. Hmm. Salty. Gross.

If rut makes alphas dull around the edges, stupid and eager to please, heat only makes omegas sharper. Mike feels alive in his body, from his toes to the top of his head. He can hear further than he usually can—Burky's made himself scarce for the evening. Good. Mike... wants to hunt. Wants to run through the woods, tracking something down, pounce on it, rip its throat out with his teeth. 

Mike looks down at Tom and smiles. He can tell it's not a comforting smile from the way Tom gulps. 

Why would he need some deer? He has the perfect prey right here.

Mike leans over Tom, still pinning his wrists down. He sniffs. Underneath the sweat, there's--yes. There's arousal. Mike leans his head down, runs his tongue up Tom's throat, opens his mouth and just rests his teeth against the side. Tom bares his neck. Mike growls.

"Good boy." Mike drags Tom's hands up to hold onto the headboard. "Keep holding onto those if you know what's good for you."

Tom nods and Mike rewards him with a gentle peck on the mouth. Tom gasps, and opens his mouth, and Mike, unable to resist, kisses him more deeply. He does his best to be careful with his teeth but. If Tom gets a little cut up, he won't complain about it. Mike can already taste Tom's heat-sympathetic saliva starting to gather in his mouth. It's nowhere near as thick or long-lasting as his real rut saliva, but evolution has made it enough to get the job done. 

"So easy for me," says Mike, and presses his sharp smile against Tom's jaw, slipping a thumb into his mouth to press against his tongue, pin it to the bottom of his mouth. Tom tries to close his mouth around it to suck, but Mike tsks. "No, keep it open." 

Tom's mouth snaps right back open. Mike continues to rub, feeling the texture of Tom's tongue against the sensitive pad of his finger. He can feel himself spacing out, like he does sometimes in heat, so focused on the sight of each of Tom's individual eyelashes fluttering, the combined scent of their arousal rising, the wetness of his mouth, that he's unable to think about anything else. He snaps back when he hears Tom give a whimper. Saliva is running out of the corners of Tom's open mouth, and Tom makes desperate eye contact with Mike as it starts to drip down the sides of his face. 

Rut leaves an alpha with very little capacity for anything beyond basic feelings. Yes, mine, please, claim. Heat, though? Heat doesn't leave Tom with anything to distract him from what Mike is doing to him. The scent of Tom's humiliation makes something in Mike roll over and pay attention. It wouldn't do a single thing for him if he couldn't also smell how much Tom likes it. 

Mike gets up on his knees. "You want me to stop, you say stop or you take your hands off the headboard. Otherwise, you keep quiet, and you keep your hands up there no matter what, you hear me?" Tom makes eye contact with Mike and gives him a little wink. Mike snorts and slaps him gently on the cheek. "Yeah, yeah. Just being careful."

With that, Mike takes one sharp claw and rips his way out of his basketball shorts. The claws are super fucking inconvenient for sex, but at least they make undressing relatively easy. 

"C'mon," Mike says, knee walking his way up the bed. "Show me what that mouth's good for." 

Tom, bless him, closes his eyes and sticks out his tongue.

Most of the time, Mike could honestly take or leave getting eaten out. He honestly prefers getting his dick sucked. Even during Tom's ruts, it's mainly a thing of convenience. He knows that Tom would probably like to spend longer there, but almost always, it's a precursor to getting fucked, and that's that. 

Most of the time, that is, except for heat. His senses are more sensitive, and to be completely honest? Sitting on Tom's face just feels right, primally. Like he's where he's supposed to be. Mike can feel a flush starting on his chest. The combination of Tom's groans and what his tongue is doing is seriously getting him. He feels like he can... relax. Things are where they're supposed to be, for right now. There are no other omegas in his hearing range. Tom’s and his combined scent is soothing as he breathes it in. He can hear Tom below him, gasping for breath, but healthy, happy, excited. As he relaxes, he can feel Tom relax too, assured by his omega. Mike reaches back and, focusing hard, manages to retract his claws on two of his fingers, pushes them in beside Tom's tongue. He hisses at the stretch, and the hiss turns to a growl. 

He rears up on his knees, pulls off of Tom's face. Tom looks up at him, mouth still open, dumbstruck. Mike's eyes rake over him, his handsome face, his strong arms and shoulders. Reaches back and rubs a hand over Tom's cock, hard just from eating Mike out, without even being touched. Strong. Talented. Fertile.

Mike growls and rips Tom's shorts off, leaving him with a long, thin scratch along his hip. He brushes the pad of his finger over it in apology as he repositions himself, staring Tom in the eye as he lowers himself down. His eyes almost roll back in his head at the stretch, and they both moan in symphony. Mike lets his head drop back as comes to rest, to breathe. He presses a hand over his lower stomach, as though he could feel Tom through his skin. He can't, but the thought is hot anyway.

Mike starts to move, slowly at first, bracing his hands against Tom's chest and just. Rocking. Running his claws up and down Tom's chest, scratching gently over his nipples. Closing his eyes and opening his mouth, flickering his tongue out like he can taste the air. He almost feels like he could. He gains speed, starting to bounce. 

Tom starts to gently thrust, in concert, and Mike strokes one hand over his cheek, giving him the go ahead. Mike holds himself up and lets Tom thrust into him, gently. There's no rush, not now. Everything is just where it needs to be. Mike twists a hand over his own cock a few times, careful of his claws. Reaches up to touch his nipples, scratch at his own scalp. He feels like he did in the spa, almost high on endorphins. He sighs and bends over, folding himself over Tom, leaning in to open his mouth back up against his neck, bringing one hand up to gently wrap around his throat.

"Just like this," Mike says. "And don't you dare fucking come." He can feel Tom nod.

Look, Mike's... not ashamed to say he spaces out. Tom's rocking into him slowly and steadily. Mike rubs his hands along Tom's shoulders, up his arms to squeeze at his hands, still obediently clasped to the headboard. Brings his own hands back down to run through Tom's hair, scratch at the back of his scalp. Mike feels like his whole body is submerged into a hot bath. After weeks of being so on edge he felt like he would snap at any moment, no one could blame him for relaxing into it. He starts to come back to reality, first, when he notices Tom has stopped thrusting into him. He fully returns when he hears the crying.

Mike sits up, and Tom is. Wrecked. His hair is sticking up in every direction from Mike's hands running through it. His knuckles are white from how hard they're holding onto the headboard. His chest is heaving, and he's trying so hard to silence his sobs, but they burst forth, every once in a while. His cheeks are red, with tears coursing over them. Mike reaches back to feel, and Tom's legs are shaking like crazy. The world outside the windows is fully dark, the only illumination coming from the street lights. Mike, truly, has no idea how long Tom spent thrusting into him, keeping perfect pace, not complaining or stopping until he just physically couldn't keep going anymore. When Mike meets Tom's eyes again, Tom, perfectly obedient as always, through trembling lips, mouths, _I'm sorry_.

Mike moans in sympathy and pulls off, leaning up to gently kiss Tom's cheeks, his forehead, his nose, over his closed eyes, and finally, his lips.

"I know, baby," Mike says. "I know, it was hard. You tried so hard. You were so good for me. You are so good for me. You make me so happy. I couldn't ask for a better alpha."

Mike gets off the bed, helps Tom straighten out his legs. Brings his hands down to rest by his sides. He rubs over Tom's legs, starting from the feet and going up all the way to the crease of Tom's hips. Once he finishes with Tom's legs, Mike starts with his hands, goes all the way up to his shoulders, across his chest. Mike lays Tom's final hand back down and sits next to him, runs a hand through Tom's hair.

"I think we're all done, champ, huh?" he asks.

Tom clears his throat before he speaks. "Yeah," he rasps. 

"Alright. I'm gonna go get you some water, and then make you tea for that throat. I'll be right back, okay?"

Tom closes his eyes and just nods.

Mike pulls on a new pair of shorts, walks out to the kitchen and sets the kettle to boil, then takes a glass and fills it from the tap. Returns to Tom's room to prop him up against the headboard, hands him the glass and sits with him while he drinks it. Then, when the kettle starts to whistle, Mike goes back to the kitchen, grabs a tea bag and the biggest mug they own, adds in some honey, and brings it back to Tom. 

They sit side by side in bed, shoulders brushing, as Tom sips his tea.

"How're you feeling?" asks Tom.

"I should be asking you that. I really made you work hard, bud."

Tom shrugs, looks down into his mug. "It was. Nice. It was painful, but in a good way. Like I could stand it, because I was. Helping you. Making you feel good. It made me go a lot longer than I thought I could, just thinking about how happy you would be if I was able to keep going for, you know, one more thrust. That was what it became. Just, 'Mike's gonna like it if I do one more thrust'. It was so important to me."

"Well, you did a great fucking job. And I'm very happy with you." Mike bonks his head against Tom's, and Tom cracks a laugh.

"Do you want to keep going?" asks Tom. 

Mike takes stock of his body. As he was taking care of Tom, his claws went away. So did his teeth. He feels settled in his body properly again, not sas agitated as he was in preheat, but not as relaxed as he was in heat, either.

"No," Mike says. "No, I think I got just what I needed."

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaand no one coming was NOT how I thought the ending of this was going to be but, you know what, just like in real life, sometimes the point of sex is the journey and one or both parties can leave without an orgasm and still feel sexually and emotionally fulfilled! "Sex" can be a lot of different things! Just assume they go to sleep and then wake up and fuck like rabbits the next morning. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and PLEASE leave kudos and comments! I am really, honestly, truly terrible at responding to comments, but honest to God, being able to go back and read over your guys' comments was 100% of the reason that this fic even got written in the first place. So if you want another installment in, say, December of 2020, leave a comment!!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Spit Cup + Scratch That Itch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24257824) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)


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